Mending
by Idonquixote
Summary: Oneshot. Five times an injured Erik attempted to care for himself and one time someone else did it for him.


**So here it is, my first attempt at doing a "five and one" but I couldn't think of another theme besides... this. So hopefully you like Erik whump. Lots of it. The story's a mix of Kay and Leroux, but feel free to imagine ALW Erik- I left his face ambiguous on purpose.**

**Warnings: violence, hinted non-con, shameless Erik abuse**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO.**

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I.

The road was endless, leaves swirling in the air and threatening to overtake his blurry vision. The boy fell with a shudder, rocks scraping his bare skin. He wanted to lie down and die. Dying meant his master couldn't find him. Dying meant it would all end here. He lifted his head, suddenly feeling very thirsty and touched the tender bruises on his throat, tracing the marks down to his collarbone. They didn't hurt, not as much as the day before.

There were two things on his incoherent mind: food and water. Yes, access to that meant he could live. But why would he want to? _Why would Erik want to?_ Oh, confound it all. He blinked. He breathed. This was freedom. The bars of the cage, the jeering laughs, the beatings, the-

It was long behind him. He stood up shakily, blood dripping from the weals on his back and running down his legs. He tore the ripped shirt from his emaciated form and pressed it against the wounds, the air lashing at his cut chest in its stead. He stumbled over to a nearby tree and collapsed beneath it. He would rest for a bit and when he was awake, he would finish his path.

Mother always said he healed like a demon. He believed her.

II.

"Show us your face," the burly man demanded, breath reeking of alcohol. His companions muttered in drunken agreement as they stumbled around the masked man. The living corpse was annoyed.

"The show's over- perhaps if you come back in the morning, I shall entertain you." He did not bother hiding the irritation. Then as an afterthought, "_gentlemen_."

"Ye after my money? Thas it right?"

Erik did not bother replying. He made a move to re-enter his tent when one of the man's companions blocked him. Hands twitching, he wondered what it would take to avoid bloodshed tonight. He was in no position to run from the authorities yet again. Another man came up behind him and another until he found himself in the center of four inebriated idiots. He seethed on the inside.

"Let me through."

"What a nice voice-"

A hand on his chest. "Wonder if he looks as nice-"

Erik shoved the man away, with more vigor than he intended. The other fell to the ground with a thump. "S'a fight he wants!"

The comment was followed by a clout from the left. Erik stumbled, blocking another blow, and another, and another. One of the many punches struck him below the ribs. Stunned, he failed to fend off another attack. He felt himself fall backward as a barrage of blows assaulted him from the shoulders down. The man behind him caught him with a dizzy chuckle, arms locking Erik's own in place. He struggled against them. A kick to the shin. A punch to the jaw. A fist in his stomach, against his chest, the men coming at him all at once, pounding and pounding until he could feel skin break, taste iron in his mouth, and hear bones crack.

He thought about his mother's piano as the beating continued, he wondered about the gypsies he left, about the rare glimpses of kindness from persons he could barely remember. His mind was a swirl of disjointed notes, playing to the tune of pain.

The mask was wrenched off. Screaming. He fell bonelessly, colliding with the ground, in too much pain to bother about what happened. "Monster... freak... devil..." the words echoed. Each word accompanied by a kick to his ribs.

When the shaken drunkards had run off, or when Erik was sure they had run off, he turned on his side, groaning with the effort. Through sheer willpower, he managed to crawl back into the tent and prop himself on the makeshift bed. Trembling fingers struggled to shrug off his jacket and undo the buttons on his shirt. He saw bruises, ugly and large, painted over old scars, and bloody cuts that would require stitching. He pressed a rib- bruised, and another- cracked. _Damn_. He was sure the rest of his body was covered with contusions and that a joint was popped.

Still fighting against unconsciousness, he succeeded in dosing himself with a bout of morphine. He would take care of these when he awoke; he had always been curious about the human body after all- he could experiment with his own later. He fell asleep swearing that he would never be defenseless again. He was sixteen years of age after all.

III.

He had been beaten with a whip, pummeled by the force of men, sliced with a knife, and even suffered burns of the worst sort, but Erik had to admit that the pain of a bullet was quite new to him. And not in a pleasant way. He thought of this as he staggered through the desert, clutching a bleeding shoulder, harsh winds blowing at him.

The African deserts lived up to their reputation indeed. The Englishman was not far behind him. _I want your head on my mantle, monsieur_. Erik cursed himself for not noting the man's behavior earlier- he loved to hunt the exotic and at the darkest corner of Richard Dawton's corridor was not the head of a lion, but the head of an indigenous warrior.

_I am a magician, not game!_ If he had known, he would never have left the Arab fair to become Dawton's personal performer. Only a day and he was running for life! He had diverted Dawton in their last struggle and Erik now found himself sporting a rifle wound and a fractured wrist. Wonderful circumstances, he should say. Now his ability to wield the punjab was also impaired. He wanted to clap and thank the heavens for his luck.

The heat gnawed at him and he was losing far too much blood to be calm. A shot filled the air. Either Dawton had found a new target or he was aimlessly shooting. He didn't have time to contemplate further when another crack was heard, followed by a searing pain from his thigh. He fell, rolling in the sand, a stream of blood trailing after him.

"You put on quite a hunt," the Englishman called, walking up to him, his hair disheveled, face covered with cuts, and a grin plastered on his mouth.

Erik struggled to sit up, stifling a shout of agony. His vision was blurring with each breath. Was this the way the living corpse was to go out? Slaughtered like an animal, his head displayed like any other beast. He shut his eyes, waiting for the last bullet. There was a tremendous sound when the gun went off but he felt nothing. Barely lucid, Erik forced an eye open and turned his head. Dawton was face-down in the sand, blood pooling beneath him. The butler stood a few feet away, face flushed and body trembling.

As if fighting back nausea, the man ran over to where Erik lay, feeling for a pulse, both too numb to speak. With the other man's help, Erik managed to stumble onto the camel- or was it a dragon?- the former had ridden. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he made it back to the hunter's home. He was not going to let any other man touch him. No. This nightmare had been too long for his taste.

"I require no doctor," he mumbled weakly. The servant did not protest.

Erik remembered sending for tools and digging out the bullets himself. He sloppily stitched the wounds with one hand and fainted in the bathroom, his mind thinking about mirrors and opera.

IV.

He won. Erik sighed in relief- the fight had been close but he had won. The onlookers regarded the scene with disgust but the sultana was clapping in delight, praising her trapdoor lover. He forced himself to bow for her, wincing at the movement. The last prisoner had wanted to live desperately and he had choked the life out of him. _Does this please you, monster? No, no..._

Erik stared at his bruised hands. So many lives he had taken in a row. Perhaps the sultana was pleased at last. The sultana had not dismissed him yet so he mentally recounted the injuries needing treatment: bruised ribs, a jagged slice along his shoulder and arm, a stabbed leg-

"Another!" she cried.

_Another?_ He pondered the words, mind blank. He heard the daroga's voice floating- "he can't!" An apology from the Persian, he had spoken out of turn. Another? Another prisoner was led in, eyes wild and jaw tight. The shackles came undone. Erik was still pondering the words when the man rushed at him, unarmed. He stumbled with a powerful blow the jaw, dropping the punjab lasso. He understood now.

It wasn't over. He felt the man pound on his already damaged ribs, delivering deep punches to his torso, and felt himself fall to his knees. But the blows kept coming, sending the blood from his wounds splattering against the tiles. He coughed, hacked, specks of red on the other man's fist.

"Fight back, magician!" the sultana screeched.

He couldn't. He was lifted by the collar, the opponent desperately hammering into his body. But he couldn't die here- not like this, not when he was at the height. This was the height, was it not? Power, power, respect- the sultana wanted- needed him to win-

Erik swung a leg, catching his opponent in the chest. He pounced on the other man, bare hands winding around the man's throat and he squeezed, drunk on adrenaline. He stood shakily after the man's last breath.

Why was he doing this? _Erik does not know_. He didn't wait to be dismissed. Erik limped away on his own, half conscious and wondering if anyone would stop his leave. The sultana laughed and clapped. The others glared at him. His bleary mind wondered when the daroga saved him from falling. The Persian led him away. He did not remember making it back to his own apartment that night, but Erik did remember struggling in bed until the daroga had given up and let him tend to himself, the doctor all but running away.

"Erik, you will only harm yourself further."

"Shut up, you booby!"

V.

"Don't you dare-"

"Erik's secrets are none of your concern, you nosy, pigheaded Persian!"

That being said, Erik slammed the door in said Persian's face. The imbecile- didn't he know the trapdoor lover was a busy man? The palace was still underway and he had to make an addition to the chamber and-

"If you die tonight, you will have no one to blame but yourself!" Nadir called in anger. Erik heard the man's footsteps leave in a storm. Good riddance!

There was a twinge of grief but it was not a feeling he was unused to. Nadir was poking his head where it didn't belong. Erik backed against a wall and slid to the floor, giving into the pain with a hiss. He undid the strings of the mask and threw it aside- there was no one to see. He glanced at his scarred arm, tiny cuts where he had struggled against _them_ in a drugged state.

Nothing happened. It would be demeaning for _them_ to have to touch the likes of him in that way. _"The shah-in-shah's demon is but a man!"_

Damn those voices. But his robes had been ripped and torn. The knife had pressed against parts that should never have been touched by others again. He had cried out. The humiliation. His scars were traced with thin slices, carving at his pathetic nature- they knew how to seek revenge and they sought it well. What was he to do? Tell the Shah? The sultana? No, he could say nothing. It was too shameful, too weak of him.

He would not be surprised if the sultana had ordered this act. Stripped to the bone, whipped with a belt, carved like meat, branded with fire- was he to tell the daroga all this? He had managed to salvage his clothing when they left at last, bleeding and holding back tears, the effects of whichever drug had been administered finally wearing off, when Nadir stumbled along. He said he was fine and the fool could _not_take a hint.

_Erik is fine._

The burns on his back stung. There were words on his torso, carved and burnt to memory. He could always scratch it out later, perhaps with a knife- his lids drooped- it wasn't as if he was unused to scars. He stood up and staggered toward the bathroom. Nothing would require stitches but he knew from experience the pain of an infection. There were enough prepared remedies he had hidden in case something like this would occur, though not in the way he had imagined. The pain meant nothing because at least for the moment, it took the humiliation away.

VI. And the one time...

He had never been in Christine's flat before. It was an odd sensation, this feeling of normalcy, though he knew this had not been the way she hoped to show it to him. He tried to say her name, but it came out as a strangled moan, much to his consternation. She was at his side in an instant, patting his unmasked face. "Stay awake, Erik, for now, stay awake," she said gently, but with a force he didn't know she had.

He lay on the bed as she cut away the remains of his blood-soaked shirt. They were such fine clothes- cost more than a few francs, he should say.

"You must tell me what to do," Christine's voice demanded, still so soft and angelic.

"Water... clean-"

She dabbed at the wounds carefully, blinking back tears. "My poor, unhappy Erik- how could you be so stupid?"

He chuckled weakly. "I would do it again," he wheezed, remembering the stings of the knife.

He instructed her through the stitching, fighting back any groans of pain, feeling vaguely ashamed of the mess his body must have appeared to her. The amount of scarring must be hideous, made only worse by the latest bruising and blood.

"Your arm-"

"It's not too bad, my dear... a simple sling should do for now- give me the tools... and I shall do the rest-"

"No, you're in no condition to do anything."

He could hear her voice humming as she worked on him. Abruptly the comforting music stopped and he heard muffled sobs. Of course, this must be too tasking- and the sights she needed to see-

"I'm sorry," he managed to say brokenly.

She looked at him as if he had just ripped her heart out. _No!_ He hadn't meant to insult-

"It wasn't your fault," she said, taking his other hand in her own, "do not apologize, mon ange. I'm upset _for_ you, Erik, not for any other reason."

So much affection in her voice. He felt tears pricking as she finished the bandaging. "If not for you, I would be lying here in your stead. Erik, for my sake, never do something like that-"

"I make no promises."

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Then we shall both have to be more careful," she said lovingly.

"Yes..."

Erik gave into the pain, drifting into sleep with a warmth at his side, Christine's voice whispering and singing beside him. _We are safe_._ I am here for you. _And when he awoke, she would still be there.

Fin

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**Thanks for reading! Hope it was at least entertaining and feel free to review.**

**I really needed to get this out of my system and I have to admit, this amount of hurt!Erik is a lot even by my standards. I left portions of the snippets ambiguous so you can imagine for yourselves what was going on in all of them, especially in the last section. It can be seen as EC romantic or platonic; my preference is usually RC but I think it'd make Erik happier in the last snippet if it was Christine with him instead of Nadir or Mme. Giry. I owe him that much.**


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